The Sound of Silence
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Sam didn't talk about Jessica.


**Summary**: Sam didn't talk about Jessica.

**A/N**: I wrote this way back when so this takes place in the first half of the season. Found it on my computer and my beta encouraged me to post it. I told her if she beta-ed it, I would post it, so here it is. So thanks go geminigrl11 who makes writing totally worth all the mental anxiety it causes me.

**Disclaimer: **I wish they were mine, but I cannot claim them.

**The Sound of Silence**

_"Hello darkness, my old friend,  
I've come to talk with you again,  
Because a vision softly creeping,  
Left it's seeds while I was sleeping,  
And the vision that was planted in my brain  
Still remains  
Within the sound of silence."_

_-from "The Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel_

Sam didn't talk about Jessica.

No, Sam never said one word about her, but Dean knew he dreamed about her. Glancing over at his brother, sprawled out in the passenger's seat, eyes closed in what appeared to be but seldom was a gentle sleep, Dean wondered if he was dreaming about her now. But even when he woke up, her name caught in his throat, Sam didn't talk about Jessica.

Dean sometimes thought to ask him, but the timing never seemed right. Sometimes something would flicker in Sam's eyes, and Dean would sense, only for an instant, the extreme pain and grief he knew Sam must feel. In that instant, there was something so full and raw that it radiated from his younger brother in harsh waves. The moment pulsated intensely then vanished as quickly as it came. Sam's face would go blank and empty, devoid of all emotion.

Sometimes, Dean was sure that Sam would speak, would even just mention her name, tell him about a "when Jess and I..." And if Sam did, maybe Dean would push him, maybe Dean would know what else to say. But Sam never did. He stayed silent as stone.

And the truth was, it was easier when Sammy was a stone.

Sammy needed space; he needed to grieve in his own way. He would deal with it in time, and all Dean needed to do was wait.

He looked back out the road, feeling the road slipping by under his tires. But what was he waiting for?

Dean knew that the moment Sam looked like he was about to cry he would liquor him up and tell him stories of one night stands. He would tell him about flurried nights spent in cheap motel rooms with girls he couldn't remember or warm pre-dawns pressed body to body in the backseat of the Impala with girls who tasted like Tequila. Anything to get Sam's mind off of what he'd had, what he'd lost.

Dean didn't want Sam to talk about Jessica.

How selfish was that? About as selfish as his relief that Jessica died and gave him back his baby brother.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel as the car moved ahead into the waning late afternoon daylight.

The admission made him queasy. Sam had lost everything, had his world fall apart, and Dean was more than content to let it slide. Because, for Dean, it was only the end that mattered, and however it had happened, he had Sam back. And of all the things Dean had lost in _his_ life, Sam was the one thing he couldn't bear to lose again. Not even to a memory. Especially not a ghost.

So it slid. And Sam grew darker and skinnier. He didn't sleep and he didn't eat. It kept sliding; Sam kept falling apart.

Because Sam wasn't good at being a stone. Not like Dean was. But Dean had had years of practice - ever since his mother died. Being a stone for Dean wasn't so much a conscious choice as a necessity. If he let the emotions out the way they threatened to sometimes, he'd be lost. So he didn't do chick-flick moments, and he never had to show his vulnerability.

He clenched his teeth, tried to stifle the growing uneasiness in his chest.

Sam couldn't talk about Jessica.

If Sam talked about Jessica, started admitting emotions and truth, Dean would have to face everything. He would have to face his guilt for dragging Sammy back in, his anger at Sammy for breaking away, his terror at losing his father, his grief over his mother's death, his love for his baby brother.

He would have to face the trail of pain and fear that had followed him his entire life.

His eyes burned, but he refused to blink as sun crept lower into the sky.

Dean was terrified that Sam would talk about Jessica.

He could face down any paranormal entity, talk his way out of any tight situation, but he couldn't touch emotions with a ten foot pole—not Sam's, not his own, not anybody's. It was a vulnerability Dean didn't know how to protect against. He wouldn't know what to do with it. Even more, he wasn't ready to reach down and face his own fears in order to offer his own vulnerability back to Sam.

Because deep down, he knew that it would overtake him. The years of grief, fear, inadequacy, guilt—all the vulnerable emotions—would boil and make him realize how miserable he was, how he had nothing to show for his life except pain.

He wore his facades like a shield, always covering, always hiding. Being a man allowed him to never deal with weakness. The hunt allowed him never to have to deal with himself. He had given himself up the day his mother died and had always been to afraid to find the scared little boy clutching his baby brother. That little boy was defenseless, exposed--afraid. Dean couldn't let himself be any of those things.

Dean swallowed hard, willing his grip to ease and his breathing to even. He felt the burn in his eyes slowly fade.

Sam needed to talk about Jessica, but Dean needed to talk about everything.

But neither did and neither would, and the road ahead was endless, welcoming them in silence.


End file.
